I wasn’t the one with an implant in my neck. Thom was right, I could escape unscathed.
I heard footsteps coming on the cement walkway outside the motel room door. Agent Truman wasn’t even trying to be stealthy. He wasn’t even remotely afraid of us.
For some reason, knowing how little he thought of us . . . of Thom and me . . . well, it pissed me off.
Suddenly the gun in my hand was vibrating. No, the gun wasn’t vibrating, my fingertips were. I didn’t think I’d be able to hold it steady enough to shoot. But then again, I had a better weapon now.
Outside the bathroom, on the other side of the flimsy hollow-core door I was hiding behind, I heard the doorknob to the motel room jiggle, and I could imagine Agent Truman out there, testing the lock. I imagined Thom, too, waiting and feeling guilty because he was the reason Agent Truman was here. Blaming himself all over again.
A storm blew through me. A hot wind coiled, twisting and snarling when I heard the bright red metal door bang against the wall as Agent Truman let himself inside.
What a jerk!
This was what I needed, to be angry. Enraged.
It would give me the upper hand, and then the gun would be unnecessary. I held my breath, waiting for the right time.
I counted his steps.
Then, I heard his voice. “Hello again.” He said it like he had everything under control, and something inside me unleashed.
The door to the bathroom flew wide—I didn’t even touch it . . . it just . . . happened.
I was ready for it; Agent Truman never saw it coming.
He had his gun drawn on Thom—not at his head, which was a true kill shot, but at his chest. I wondered if a bullet through his heart would heal, or if that was as fatal.
Either way, Agent Truman never had the chance to shoot. I saw surprise register on his face at the moment I launched the bedside phone at him simply by looking at it.
The old rotary dial was heavy . . . clunky, but it was also still attached to the cord in the wall. The cord only seized for a second before detaching with a sharp snap, and then it hurtled at his head.
Agent Truman was forced to lift his arm—and the gun in his hand—to shield himself from the phone. Thom used the split-second distraction to slam his shoulder into Agent Truman’s midsection.
Agent Truman went down hard, with a gusty Oomph! His gun slid somewhere across the shag carpeting, maybe beneath one of the twin beds. But he wasn’t giving up that easily, and from out of nowhere he had a pen, a cheap ballpoint. He jammed it into Thom’s thigh.
“Son of a—” Thom howled.
Then Agent Truman rolled him over and was shoving his face down into the carpet.
I don’t know why, but I became fixated on the blood. It was everywhere, Thom’s blood. All over his pants, on the shag carpeting, and on Agent Truman.
Agent Truman punched Thom in the jaw then, and I tightened my grip around my gun. But before I could squeeze the trigger, I hesitated. What if I missed Agent Truman and hit Thom instead? What if I accidentally shot him in the head and there was no coming back from it?
The door to the outside was open, and maybe it shouldn’t matter but I kept thinking, What if someone walked past and saw what was happening in here? What if they were exposed to Thom’s blood and died because of what we were doing?
If I had better control over my abilities, I would have used them to close the door. But when I concentrated nothing happened, so I hurled myself at it instead. Agent Truman grabbed my ankle as I ran by, and I tripped just as the fingertips of my outstretched hand brushed the edge of it.
I kicked out, trying to dislodge his grip on me, and the heel of my boot connected with something solid. I hoped desperately I’d struck bone—jaw or nose or skull. Nothing in this world would make me happier.
Whatever I’d hit, the impact had been enough to loosen his grip on my ankle, and I was able to move those last few inches to reach the door. I shoved it closed with a solid, satisfying bang.
I rolled over, collapsing onto my back, at the same time Agent Truman, with blood streaming from his nose—blood that was also poisonous—swept his arm underneath the bed. When he came back up onto his knees, I saw the gun.
My heart bloated with fear. This time, he pointed it directly where it would do maximum damage: directly at Thom’s head.
“Don’t,” I begged. I still had a gun in one hand and a supernatural ability I tried to call on, but it was useless. He had me right where he wanted me—I couldn’t risk Thom’s life. I was lying on the floor, on my back, and I raised my hands over my head to show I gave up.
Then, without giving him time to gloat over the fact that he’d managed to capture us, I whispered, “Ochmeel abayal dai,” because those words were maybe our only hope at this point.
He was one of us, like it or not.